Marly

We are going to Kammadhenu tonight (two proper restaurants in a row, things are looking up), and we are catching up with John and Pauline, who were last observed at Than Binh. A flurry of emails has led to an arrangement to meet John at the Marly, for a Dogblotter or two before the main event. There is a lot to talk about. John and I both went to Epping Boys High School in the dim dark past, although not in the same year, he is definitely older than me. The talk eventually turned to school japes, and I was recalling the time some wag had arranged for a truckload of soil to be delivered to the front lawn of a teacher who had displeased him in some manner. I thought that this had been done by someone in my year, to one of my teachers, but then I also thought that it may just have been a playground myth, trotted out by some boastful and spotty twerp each year. John went a bit quiet while I was describing these supposed events, taking a sudden and keen interest in his schooner of Dougbelter. As my story petered out, he looked up with that shy grin thing he does, and said, “It wasn’t topsoil, it was blue-metal gravel. That was me.” Strop and I nearly fell off our stools – we were in the presence of a legend – well a playground legend anyway. We’ve known John for forty odd years and this has never come up before. We were busily pumping him for all the details when Pauline and Kirsten arrived. We got as far as – it was the librarian’s front lawn – in reprisal for an unfair caning (aren’t they all) – and involved a girl with family connections to a gravel and sand business. A love interest too! I’m pretty sure there is movie deal in this.

With the party now at full strength we threw back the last of our Dogbaskets and decamped to the restaurant. Kirsten is a quest newbie (or is that noob these days? I will have to check with Keir and Tessa, my consultants for all things teenager). She is Pauline’s grand niece thrice removed or something. She is also a Kiwi but she can’t help that. John and Pauline inform us that they have been undertaking a quest of their own, and it is longer than King Street! They are doing the Coastal Walk from Barrenjoey to Kurnell in weekend installments, complete with appropriately timed whale glimpses and coffee-shop stops. I am immediately envious, as this sounds like far more fun than King Street. And it has actual wildlife, not just drunken revellers in animal themed onesies. Kirsten is joining them on the walk, bright and early the next morning to act as chaperone for all the oldies, which is why she is available to join us tonight.

Kammadhenu is basically a curry joint with dhosas on the side. Their newish looking menus proclaim this loudly in yellow and purple. 1300 CURRYS is the headline, so I imagine they do takeaways too. The menu colours match the colour of the walls and go surprisingly well with strip of GI-cordial-green LED lights running around the walls. The culinary roots of Kammadhenu are in India, Sri Lanka and Malaysia, which presumably explains the colour scheme.

There is no wine list but there is a drinks fridge up the back, from which we are invited to help ourselves. There are quite a few beers on offer, but not many wines so I quickly dispatch myself back up the road to fetch a Pinot Grigio/Gris. “Get the one Rebecca bought at New Taste,” says Strop. Umm ok. “Any idea what it was called?” My question is met with her dont-be-stupid look, so I go freelance and come back with a NZ wine that elicits a lot of comments along the lines of, “My…, that’s fruity isn’t it… and quite sweet.”

Having contributed on the wine-infliction front I leave the food selection to the others. We go for a range of dhosas, some curries and some snow peas. I wasn’t paying very close attention to the details of the order as I was intrigued that the waiter was entering our choices onto an iPad. How very C21.

The food does not really distract from the conversation. It is all very edible but none of it is particularly memorable. Not by me anyway. Dhosas are always fun but the size of the plates proves a bit of a challenge to the whole food sharing ethic. Still there wasn’t any left over by the time we spilled out of the restaurant, and started shuffling along King Street in search of a gelato for dessert.

Your correspondent suffering the effects of the pre-dinner Dogblotto

On the way we walked past a new shop that seems to specialise in the supply of onesies to the Newtown stylemeisters. It was at this point that I learned that Kirsten is a bit of a onesie aficionado (“but I wouldn’t wear it in public,”). Apparently they are unparalleled as after work, house-lounging wear. Seeing as my current choice of house-lounging clobber consists of nastily stained tracky-daks and a twenty year old shag-pile polar-fleece, I am seriously considering a change to a pink and white zebra-striped onesie. It could only be an improvement, although I do worry about the whole toilet thing.

Next up is Burger Fuel. Strop and I will probably keep this one all to ourselves. Unless anyone is really keen?

Hooray. First pub, first burger. But first I have to wait for Strop to return to civilisation from the outlands of Parramatta where she is working late, finishing things off before going on holidays. So I down a Dogbolter or two, read my Kindly book (Wool – it might be overrated but I am only halfway through), go for a walk, look at the young people, have another Dogbolter…

When Strop arrives she is in a very good mood due to being on hols and going to Fiji in a few days time. I have managed to appropriate a table in the crowded Garden Bar, conveniently close to the loos. The Marly is a Newtown institution, which is not necessarily a good thing in my experience. It has recently had a bit of a makeover though, and the vortex of the redecorating whirlwind seems to have settled on the back bar which has become quite girly and gardeny. There are friezes and murals on the general theme of plants, lots of exposed brick, and even internal window boxes with plastic lavender (I wonder how they dust those).

It’s all a bit gorgeous really. Still, the vibe is lively and the staff are very efficient and friendly. As they all have beards, tatts and oversized earings, the only way to tell them from the punters is by the tea towels they all wear, hanging jauntily from their waists.

Rule Number 6 says burgers, so that’s what we’re having. At first I like the look of the Newtown Cheeseburger – well it’s just the name really, I’m a sucker for a good name – until I read the fine print and realise it is a No-Meat option. No thanks, I’ve been waiting a long time for this burger opportunity and the presence of meat is non-negotiable. So the order at the bar is two Beefburgers With The Lot, another Dogbolter for my good self, and a glass of Rioja for the missus. While at the bar I notice that the top shelf is brimming with single malts and decide to forego dessert in favour of a Talisker later on.

There are pot plants in macrame holders hanging over the bar. I’m glad to see macrame is making a comeback with the hipsters, but it is an odd feeling when the trappings of your formative years become the next generations ironic plaything. Luckily the burgers arrive before I get too depressed by this thought.

Old school burgers – well apart from the girly red basket

The burgers come in little red baskets with chips on the side and they are excellent. Nothing ironic here, just a reverential tribute to the old-school definition of The Lot: egg, bacon AND pineapple. There may have been cheese in there too but I didn’t pause long enough to be sure. And the burgers are not too large in the diameter dimension. They are a traditional burger size, although piled high enough with fillings to warrant spearing with a bamboo reinforcing spike.

Strop decides she would like a bit of mayonnaise to go with the chips. The staff are apologetic, “Sorry we only have aioli.”

“Even better,” says Strop.

Mmmm… aioli

The only negative we find is that the buns are a little on the sweet side. This doesn’t worry me but Strop likes to make constructive criticisms. To my mind, the role of the bun in a burger is similar to a napkin, it is only there to keep your fingers clean. All you want to notice about the bun is the toasty inner surface, nicely softened by barbecue sauce and fat.

We finish off the evening with a Lagavulin and a Talisker before stumbling home to fall asleep in front of the television. The Marly has set a high pub-burger standard. I wonder how the others will compare.